


Honey Soul

by Caivallon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe a part of him expected the man to ignore his words.</p>
<p>To do something. To save him. </p>
<p>Maybe a part of him knew the man wouldn’t listen. <i>Disobey</i> him. </p>
<p>Feelings are for losers. Feelings make you weak. Feelings make you hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of my story [ **per ardua ad astra** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1253143). I didn’t actually plan the second part, but after the first one i really wanted to write Peter’s version of their relationship. And even though I didn't plan writing this part, I planned the whole story to end like this, I planned every scene when I wrote [ **per ardua ad astra** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1253143). (In fact I planned many more scenes, but... )
> 
> Please take note of the warnings. It’s not exactly the fluffiest of my stories.
> 
> My beta was the lovely [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYbee/pseuds/QWERTYbee) (Sorry it took me so long to post it. All my love to you! ♥)
> 
> And thanks to [ **Tetila** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwakeMySoul) who always listens to my crazy ideas about this pairing. 
> 
> I hope you like it (comments and critics would be lovely ♥).
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=6oevco)  
> 

**Honey Soul**

 

**I**

White. 

Everything is white. Pure and ~~innocent~~ sterile. 

He _hates_ white. 

(There has been a time in his life when he loved it. Soap. Cream. Milk-powder. Snow. Everything good in the world.)

Now he stares at the bed in front of him and hates it. 

Stares down at the body underneath the sheets. 

White sheets. White shirt. White walls. White inside. White outside the windows. ~~Snow-covered~~. 

The man sleeps, still wearing the soft smile he’s so used to. Pale - so much paler than he’s used to. Hair in disarray. But not because he tousled it. Stretched out on his back, bare arms by his side. So perfectly motionless, like one of the corpses he prepared so well for their funeral. 

He wants to grab and shake him. Shake him until he wakes. 

(Lie beside him, pressed close so that his own warmth would cover him.)

Wants to grab and choke him. Choke him until he dies. 

(Kill him with his own hands. Feel the life streaming out of him.)

Yet he can’t. 

 

**II**

He can’t. 

 

**III**

Peter’s angry. Aggravated. _Furious_ , clenching his hands to control himself. 

(He told him not to!)

He told him not to… ~~leave him~~. 

 

**IV**

Maybe a part of him expected the man to ignore his words.

To do something. To save him. 

Maybe a part of him knew the man wouldn’t listen. _Disobey_ him. 

Maybe a part of him had even calculated it, relying on the man’s sense of honour- his inability to accept injustice or mistreatment of someone weaker. 

_All those stupid concepts of care and sorrow and pity and love_. 

Peter learned long ago that those words mean nothing. They are mere constructs - fragile, hollow and abstract.

Beautiful, but useless. 

And everybody who still believes in them is a fool, deserves to get tricked or used or lied to. 

Feelings are for losers. Feelings make you weak. Feelings make you hurt. 

~~Feelings get you killed~~.

 

**V**

But maybe another part of Peter didn’t _really_ want him to do that.

The part that liked every single word- every single glance from the man, every gesture. 

The part that liked their touches... their kisses. _Everything_.

~~The part that liked feeling safe and whole and precious and warm~~.

 

**VI**

Peter sought him out. 

On that first evening a year and a half ago. 

The man from the churchyard. 

The man who loved the dead more than the living. 

The man who supposedly had killed his own brother. 

Everyone in town whispered rumors about him, his family, his past. Everyone avoided talking to him, coming near him. 

But no one knew the truth. 

And whenever Peter saw him from afar all he could see was a lost boy: alone and quiet, strangely content, but sad. 

There was no one who cared about him. 

No one who missed him. 

No one who loved him. 

He was intrigued, fascinated. He resolved to get to know him. ~~To get under his skin~~. 

Waiting for the lights in the mortuary to go black, he leaned into the shadows under a tree on the opposite side of the street, calm and patient as always when he really wanted something. 

There was something about the man that captivated him instantly: the way he traced the iron bars of the gate before he turned the key and closed it for the night. The way he placed the key under the globe of stone beside the old weeping willow (a well-known secret in this part of town, offering the reassuring opportunity to visit their beloved ones any time someone needed the comfort). The way he bowed under the whispering branches - leafless, black and thin like hair, caressing over his back. 

Casually, Peter strolled over to him asking for the smoke he had ~~desperately~~ craved ever since he had left the house almost an hour ago. He let the man take in his appearance: his pale skin, graceful fingers, light eyes. 

(The slightly worried gaze - appreciating him like he was something precious.)

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No. I’m never cold.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m full of hate. It keeps me warm.”

“Doesn’t sound very healthy.”

They walked together, Peter entertaining him with a twisted dark fairytale about his parents, his tone flat and emotionless, like it _really_ was nothing but a fairy tale and not his own daily life. Like he didn’t care. 

(Actually he doesn’t _care_.)

And when they reached the man’s house - a big, neglected building, with a wooden staircase and porch, peeling paint and windows without curtains - he kissed him.

It was so easy to elicit almost everything from him. ~~Almost~~ disappointingly easy. First the cigarette, then some reluctant words and finally - not quite so reluctant - the kiss.

That forceful harsh kiss, tasting of ashes and coffee and sugar and toasted bread. 

(Cosy - like something he had long forgotten.)

Peter hadn’t intended to kiss him. To taste him, to test him. But he trusted his instincts.

 

**VII**

~~And kissing him felt so good~~.

 

**VIII**

‘ _How did he dare?!_ ’

He should punish him. He really should. 

Nobody messes with him. ~~And nobody leaves him~~. 

Clenching his fists, Peter stares at the man. 

The almost black hair dull and grayish against the pale skin. So pale; bruised. Ugly stains on chin and cheekbones. Evil red flowers on white. Arms lying above the blanket, the veins of the right one visible through the bloodless skin like poison ivy. 

(He must be cold.)

The needle bites into the back of the right hand, dripping warm life back into him. A transparent tube leads to his nose, breathing oxygen into lungs, making the chest rise and fall. The thick bandage on the left arm hides the sins he committed. 

(He must be in pain.)

Lights blink above him; the monitor controlling the life signals shows a steady but slow - and artificial - number of heartbeats. A constant wave of brain activity: the high peaks prove that he’s in pain, haunted by nightmares and demons.

(Peter hopes he is.)

‘ _How did he dare?!_ ’

Brushing his fingers over the cold glass of the window separating him from the bed in which the man lies, Peter watches him. 

Blind to the curious and judgemental glances from the nurses and other patients. 

(He doesn’t care.)

 

**IX**

All he ~~cares~~ thinks about is the man lying in front of him. 

 

**X**

The first thing he notices when he steps into the room is the ~~scent~~ smell. Stinging and biting in his nose, cold and clean in a sick and dirty way. 

It’s all wrong. 

No traces of honey, of soap, of warmth. Of _him_. 

His stomach convulses. He wants to vomit. 

Clasping his hand over his mouth, to breathe in the scent of his own skin, to keep himself from throwing up, Peter steps forward to the bed. 

So _pale_ (he shouldn’t be so pale). 

The machinery’s soft beeping noises already hurt his ears, scratching over his cortex. He shakes his head to get them out, not wanting it to distract him from the man’s barely audible breathing. 

Tracing his fingers over the mattress, he stops. For the first time, he takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal around the wrists (the bare right one with the needle in it and the bandaged left one), restraining him to the bed. 

_S i c k_

He wants to vomit. 

Now that he’s closer he can at least smell the familiar and instantly comforting scent, almost overlayed with antiseptic… but it’s enough to erase the overwhelming sickness. 

Leaning closer to breathe in, Peter hesitates. 

And listens. 

Listens. 

His hand is so _close_ … he could touch. 

But he’s _too_ cold. 

Peter’s chest feels heavy, empty. He’s felt this way only once before (just once, and he promised himself he’d _never_ feel like this again). 

“I’m awake.” 

Blue eyes open. Unfocused. 

Searching for him.

A small smile forms when he discovers Peter. 

“You can touch me.”

“What makes you think I _want_ to touch you?” 

His cutting remark is loud compared to the man’s broken whisper, unable to hold back his anger, his rage. 

(His feelings.)

Yet when he speaks again all machinery - sounds, blinking lights - are forgotten. Peter shivers. 

Everything so white. So wrong. 

“I’m cold.”

He doesn’t want. He doesn’t want ~~that he _wants_ to touch him~~. 

So cold. Like ice. Fingers and knuckles like dead bones. Skin paper-thin and dry from the loss of blood. 

Wrong. So very _wrong_.

Carefully he covers the right hand with his own, waiting for his heat to soak into the frozen cells, to trickle through his veins. Traces the redder spot around the tip of the needle - like the tiny bite of an insect - the eerie feeling of blood ~~being pressed~~ dripping into an almost empty system. Slow 

( _p a i n f u l l y s l o w_ ) 

and relentless, like sand running through an hourglass. 

~~Crawling into the man’s system more effectively than Peter ever could~~. 

 

**XI**

It makes him even more furious. 

 

**XII**

It should be _him_. 

It should be him crawling under this bloodless skin; into lungs and nerves and bones and marrow. 

_Him_. 

Not the indifferent and meaningless red fluid from a random stranger. 

 

**XIII**

It was so easy to get the man to trust him. To bewitch him. ~~Almost~~ disappointingly easy.

He let Peter into his house, into his bed, into his thoughts, into his dreams, into his heart. 

Two weeks and he already cared for him. 

Four weeks and he had already fucked him. 

Six weeks and he was unable to deny him anything.

 

**XIV**

Peter never forgets.

He remembers _e v e r y t h i n g_. 

Every _word_. Every _bruise_. Every _touch_. 

Others may think remembering makes them weak. But remembering makes him _strong_. 

Memories are a gift: 

they keep the flame of his hate alive. 

They keep him alive. 

Usually all his memories are full of piercing pain, raging brutality and strangling enforcement. Usually they are deep red and blood and iron and striking white flashes of torment (his father using and bruising him, raping him until his insides bleed).

Sometimes they are also full of icy ignorance, nagging envy and cruel punishment. Sometimes they are evil green and violet, biting slaps into his face. Fast like a snake (his mother standing beside them, ignoring him, protecting his father, begrudging him the attention his father pays to him). 

But now he’s got memories that are white and grey and dark brown walnut furniture, velvet like whipped cream, dotted with amber, sweetly caressing and even softly whispering, mind-confusing.

He remembers everything. But now there are these new memories that threaten to cover - to _extinguish_ \- the ones he’s desperately trying to keep (because they keep him alive and _strong_ ). 

Memories of the man opening up for him the first time. Of having him the first time. Of the second and the third. 

(Countless times) 

The feeling of that wonderful tasting mouth letting him in (not a mean asphyxiating tongue, leaving nothing but sickness behind). The feeling of dry and warm skin against his own (not sticky and moist, reeking of sweat and grease). The feeling of strong moving muscles, a trained body under his (not a pasty, heavy mass pressing him down, pounding into him - disgusting and sickening).

(Careful touches, without hurting him… asking… caring more about _his_ pleasure… taking pleasure by pleasuring _him_.) 

Memories he doesn’t want. 

Memories he wants to hate. 

Memories he desperately needs to hate. 

(Because feelings make people weak.)

 

**XV**

~~But he can’t~~. 

~~He just _can’t_. ~~

 

**XVI**

“You’re angry.”

The smile is amused, yet forced. He looks as if he’s in pain. 

(Peter hopes he’s in pain.) 

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _Liar_.”

“That’s the reason I’m sorry.”

Peter has to take away his hand - unable to stand the coldness - watching the almost invisible shiver, the self-disappointment in the blue eyes. To take a step back, wanting to punish him, to see remorse where he can see only faint bittersweet sadness. 

“I told you not to do something stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“No. You’re right: It was _insane_.” 

Biting his lips, he walks to the other side of the bed, towards the window. He can’t stand looking at the man - can’t stand that he wants it so much. 

It’s still snowing outside. Beautiful white flakes covering the parking lot and the hospital garden below him. 

(It’s not very high. Second floor.)

Night is setting in; white-grey turning into dark grey. No sun. 

No sun, no sky. The few colours in this colourless world losing what little they possessed. 

Taking another step closer, leaning against the windowsill, he can see his breath clouding the cold glass of the window, erasing his mirrored face. 

He can feel the solemn weight of the man’s gaze in his back while he still observes the scenery outside. The faint glow of the streetlights, the too bright headlights of the cars - hurting his eyes, his brain by bringing back the image of tiny blinking ones behind him. 

“No one has ever done something like this for me.”

He can’t turn. Not yet. 

So he continues staring. At the window. At his reflection getting sharper, clearer with every passing minute increasing the darkness outside. At the soft velvet mist his warm breath creates on the glass. 

He continues staring without blinking. Staring until his eyes hurt - dry from his relentless fixation. 

Until his breathing is in perfect sync with the weak raspy intakes behind him. 

Then he turns around. Realizes the growing darkness has already reached the room - it’s almost too dark to see. 

“I told you I’d do everything for you.”

“I’d never ask you to do that.”

“I know. And I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me. But I would’ve done it for you…”

Finally giving up his place on the window he comes closer. Pushing himself between the bed and the monitor. Between the man and the machinery keeping him alive. 

“I couldn’t stand the thought that he hurts you any longer.”

The voice is still hoarse, strained from the effort to speak (provoking memories of them together - in bed - after they had sex). 

“I hated every day you had to spend with him. Every day he could beat you up. Every day he could touch you. Ever since that day you told me about it. And even more since I found you on my steps and you were so hurt you were couldn’t walk for a week.”

“You really hate him.” 

“Yes. More than anything.”

Giving up. Giving in. 

Peter bends over the left hand, lying unmoving above the white blanket, wrist and forearm covered in thick bandages, forming a barrier that stops him from touching the beloved patch of soft pulsating skin. The silver-metalic of the handcuffs an obscene bracelet, chaining the man, keeping him from touching _him_. 

Fingertips twitch promisingly under his while he trails his nose over the back of the hand, smelling the missed fragments of soap, of wood and leather. Breathing in deeply, licking, kissing the cold bones. Tasting the familiar scent. 

He doesn’t need the increasing beeping of the ECG monitor to know that the man’s heartbeat accelerates pleasantly (as well as his own). 

It’s too good. 

(Like a huge hole in his soul finally ending its bleeding.) 

 

**XVII**

Peter spent the weekends in the man’s house. It was warm and comfortable even though it was almost empty. Too big for one person who didn’t possess much or cared about much. A bed in the bedroom, a couch in the living room. Six chairs and a table in the dining room. High windows, dark furniture, old ornamental carpets that smelled faintly of wood and incense - everything left behind from previous owners. 

It was clean and silent. 

He liked the fireplace in the library in which the man never set a foot in before he had met him. 

He liked the bathroom with the copper tabs and the old-fashioned bathtub, which the man only used for showering. 

The sunlight floating over the threadbare parquet. 

The dust dancing and glittering in that sunlight. 

The coffee stains on the kitchen counter, the used glasses in the sink - smelling of honey and whiskey. 

(The strawberries and the milk powder the man bought for him. The cigarettes they shared together before he left the house for work. The empty space between them in bed.)

He liked it there. 

He could breathe. He could do what he wanted. 

Strolling around the empty rooms on the second floor, rummaging in old trunks and cupboards. Looking for something personal - memories, pictures… anything that told him more about the man, his dead brother or the sickness of his mother.

Sitting at the kitchen table and doing his homework while no one disturbed him, watched him creepily. 

Lying in bed as long as he wanted, finally being able to fall asleep. To feel protected- and not exposed and vulnerable- while careful eyes caressed him, a quiet voice read him stories about fairies and magic, while no one _touched_ him. 

(While he was treated like something precious - not like a piece of meat.)

“I like this house.”

“Considering your home that’s not exactly a compliment.”

“That’s not my _home_. I just live there.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I have to. I’m not done there.”

“When are you done? When he’s beaten you to death?”

The man’s tone was full of repressed anger. Frustration because he couldn’t help. Hate because he couldn’t stand the thought of _him_ being used, mistreated, raped.

And Peter had to laugh, honestly amused about such emotions. 

(Feelings made you weak.)

“That won’t happen. Not now. Not when his beloved boy toy run away and he’s only got me left.”

“Your _beloved_ brother should’ve taken you with him.” 

He had to grab the book, take it away, drop it beside the couch and climb onto the man’s thighs. Wanted to watch the anger in the blue eyes get mixed up with guilt, shame and desire because he couldn’t resist to press himself against the jeans-clad crotch. 

“My my… you aren’t jealous, are you?”

Whispering - breathing - the words against the close lips. Almost tasting their wonderful taste of coffee and whiskey, while he tousled the dark hair with his fingers. Holding him. Feeling the slight shivers running down his spine. 

“Do you want me to be?”

The sound of amusement that escaped the man. The hesitant hint of a smile. He couldn’t see it, could only feel it against his own. When the man reached out so tentatively for his waist Peter huffed impatiently and placed it firmly there before he leaned forward on the strong chest, started to move his hips. 

“Yes.” 

Slow circling movements. The friction between them sweet and exciting. Warm hands on the small of his back, slipping under the fabric of his shirt, sliding upwards inch after inch. Loving each spot, each little bone on their way. 

“He’s your brother. He left you. Of course I’m not jealous of him. Just furious.” 

Licking over the warm mouth, finally tasting the familiar tongue - even warmer, soft and pliant - fueled his eagerness. Pushing deeper, rubbing faster. Increasing the friction, their bloodbeat. Loving the emotions so openly visible in these features. 

“Tell me that you’re not going to leave me.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

The hands clasped him harder - strong and safe. Holding him. Guiding him. Pressing him tighter. Delight over those words tingled in his veins, inflamed his senses. Made his heart beat feverishly. 

“Say it again.”

So sweet. So glorious. So highly satisfying.

“I’m not going to leave you.”

And everything Peter wanted was him. Devouring him. Destroying him. Keeping him forever. 

 

**XVIII**

Sometimes Peter thought he could never get enough of this. 

~~Of _him_.~~

Of seeing himself mirrored in the man’s eyes. 

Of seeing himself like the man saw him. 

 

**XIX**

“Do you think I’m weak?”

“No.”

It’s almost dark by now. The only light in the hospital room coming from the window to the corridor. A cold white neonlight, cutting sharp lines in the grey-blue darkness: blurred and disturbed by sudden red and green lights, painting an eerie picture on the man’s face with all his bruises. 

“Then why did you think you had to protect me?”

The eyes are too black, too wrong. 

“No one should suffer like this.”

“What made you think I _suffered_?”

But they still watch him. Fearless. Relentless. 

“The way you never stepped into a room without checking every corner and every niche. The way you always slept with your back to me. Only touching me to seek comfort when I couldn’t see it - like it wouldn’t count then. The way you _looked_ at me sometimes. The way you _kissed_ me sometimes. The way you _let me_ fuck you. The way you _made me_ fuck you.”

~~Peter’s ashamed.~~

“You _suffered_.”

~~Ashamed~~. 

“Because of him.” 

Peter’s angry. _Angry_.

“Don’t you get it!?” (spitting out the words)

“Are you _that_ stupid!?” (fast, hard, stinging words)

“He didn’t hurt me! That wasn’t me. Just… just an empty shell that looked like me!” (red, hot, furious words)

When he jumps up the eyes follow him, never leaving his face. Watching. Waiting. 

Red-green blinking lights counting the time. 

Unsynchronized with their accelerated heartbeats. 

Peter feels sick. Unable to breath the stale and sterile and wrong air. 

“What he did… meant nothing to me. He touched my body. He touched the insides of my body. But that wasn’t _me_. My soul. I wasn’t there, just my body. Maybe he hurt me physically, but pain can heal. Pain is nothing. It only made me stronger, made me remember, made me hate them more.”

Stepping forward, thighs brushing against the mattress, he bends until he’s mere centimeters away from the man’s face. 

(Bruises, scratches, broken nose - the faint smell of iodine, blood and skin.)

Eyes don’t blink, don’t flicker. Holding his stare. Challenging him. Provoking him, even. 

(Breathing exhaustingly fast, tiny beads of sweat on the unhealthy grey temples.)

“Of course I wanted them punished. I wanted him to relive every second of pain he inflicted on me. I wanted him to suffer, to be in agony. And I wanted her to watch it… not close her eyes and pretend nothing happened.”

Bringing his hand up to cup the face - covering it with shadows, wiping away the sweat, seeking the warmth of the stubbled cheeks - he can feel his white-hot rage turn colder, ice-blue and more serene. 

“And I _wanted_ to watch it. Every drop of blood, every tremor of enforcement, every nuance of torment he inflicted on me. And I _wanted_ him to know that I was watching. _That I was the one bringing justice_.”

He knows his hate. He knows how dangerous it is, smoldering and vicious and lethal.

He loves his hate. It’s everything he’s still got left. The only thing they can’t take away from him. No one. Not his father, not his mother, not his brother. No one. The only thing that grows stronger inside him with everyone hurting him, ignoring him, ~~leaving him~~. 

“You wanted to protect me… to avenge me.”

Letting his fingers slip downwards, over cheekbones, chin and throat ( _ohhowlovely_ the blood beats against his fingertips). Over collarbones and shoulders, over arms and elbows… bones and skin and nerves and cells. 

“How _honourable_.”

Lets his fingers trace and discover every inch of the familiarity ~~he missed so much~~.

“So fucking _honourable_.”

Letting his fingers caress over the rim of the white bandage on the left forearm. Cloudy white soft mull.

“All your honour and sense of justice. All your concern and all your care. All your stupid beliefs in charity and sympathy and devotion and _love_ …” 

It tickles his skin, send shivers down his spine - the image of what he would find underneath. 

“Look where they have brought you.”

 

**XX**

“What’s this thing with these sandwiches?” 

Peter sat outside on the windowsill; the rising sun warming his face pleasantly. Below him the high grass of the man’s neglected garden, shimmering with frail white-grey mist. His feet bare and dangling over the small drop. 

He liked that. He felt free. 

Behind him in the kitchen the man was making breakfast.

The ~~comforting and homey~~ scent of coffee and toast mingling with the sharpness of cigarette smoke and the freshness of morning dew. 

Taking another drag, he looked over his shoulder.

“I like it.”

“It’s… rather unusual.” 

“Felix used to make them for us when we were alone.”

He observed the man roasting the bread in a pan, placing milk powder and honey on the table. Also barefoot, but already dressed in jeans and shirt, hair wet from the shower.

“He always told me that’s what clouds taste like.” 

Blue eyes locked on him; Peter could feel them on his back, although he stared at the trees and the graveyard they hid. Spring began early this year and there were already tiny green leaves on them. 

“Sweet and alluring honey, soft and creamy like warm milk, velvety molten butter.” 

There was a time when Peter had loved spring - now he favors autumn and winter. 

Bare black trees, like crippled arms, the smell of moldy wood and snow. Cold air biting into skin. Sometimes it seemed it was the only thing that kept his hate in check. 

“They taste of innocence and good times, of safety and memories.”

He listened to steps coming nearer, expecting a touch - a hand upon his shoulder, on his back, a nose inhaling the scent of his hair. 

But nothing happened, so he finished the cigarette, stubbing it out on the windowsill beside him, flicking it down into the backyard. 

The man stood behind him, opening his mouth like he was about to say something, his expression almost unreadable. Almost sad. Almost tender. ~~Almost guilty, full of shame~~. 

(As if he was the one who took away Peter’s happiness. As if there ever was a time Peter was really happy.)

Peter waited, yet nothing came and so they just looked at each other until they both turned away. 

“Please close the door when you leave.” 

Then the man went away. 

After a while Peter ate the cold sandwiches, searched for his jacket and shoes. The house was silent and he could smell the scent of breakfast even in the living room where he found his clothes (he shed them on friday evening and both of them didn’t cared to touch them or clean them away). 

Dropping the man’s boxers and shirt, he dressed.

Taking a moment to watch the dancing dust in the sunlight, he finally left the scent of wood, coffee and toasted bread. 

 

**XXI**

“I want to see it.”

His fingers still trail the brink of the bandages. Asking for permission he doesn’t need. 

(He knows _he_ can’t deny him that.)

But the small nod, the short blink - signs of yielding, signs of remorse - quickens his heartbeat anyway. 

It’s rather difficult to loosen the covering, to unwind the layers of white, to reveal little by little more… 

More skin, more pain, more guilt. 

“Why are you here?”

Peter doesn’t look up, yet he knows the man’s eyes never leave his face. Biting his lips he fights the feeling of unease, of sickness in his stomach. The feelings of hollowness, of bitterness ~~of fear~~. 

“Are you here to punish me?”

His breathing stops when he removes the last layer of white bandage. The pumping of blood in his ears, the shivers of cold down his spine.

He’s so cold. 

(Like someone is crushing his heart an icy fist.)

~~It hurts~~. 

(Ripping it into tiny pieces.)

It. Hurts. So. Much. 

(Sharp and painful shards, piercing the veins in his system.)

A crack: iron-red like hate. Deep and long, from the wrist almost to the elbow. Skin ~~cut apart~~ torn apart. Sewn together with frail black threads. Tiny little stitches. Too many to count. 

The man freezes. Waiting. 

And waiting. 

~~And waiting~~. 

“No.” 

Peter finally looks up. 

“No. I didn’t come to punish you. I came to see it. Because I had to know.” 

Another small nod, blue eyes unyielding. 

“Then ask. Ask me.”

Fingers twitch on the white blanket while the man carefully tries to move his arm higher, so the metal ring of the handcuff is no longer scraping over the wound. Obviously in pain.

Peter wants to smile. 

(Yet he can’t. He. Can’t.)

“Did you do it to escape prison or did you do to leave me?”

Showing him the smile Peter couldn’t force, the man settles back on the cushion. The small effort was enough to drain all colour from his skin, to break out in a cold sweat. 

“I don’t know.” (the voice sounds surprised)

“Maybe both.” (like he didn’t expect himself to say that)

 

**XXII**

It’s true. 

Peter knows it. 

There has always been the shadow of guilt and shame in those blue eyes. Whenever they were together, whatever Peter said, whatever Peter did. 

A guilt that was futile and redundant. 

A guilt that never went away. 

A shame that grew stronger and stronger with every bruise and scratch on Peter’s body, with every time they fucked and every time they fucked _afterwards_. 

Self-hate. The man hated himself. 

(And hate is such a beautiful and powerful emotion.)

 

**XXIII**

Peter has been destroying him. Devouring him. 

 

**XXIV**

And it’s been devastatingly beautiful. 

 

**XXV**

He was always a lost boy. Like himself.

But unlike Peter he possessed a sweet and innocent soul where his was only cold and twisted.  
(Missing and loving his brother and his mother where Peter could only despite and hate them.)

And Peter has destroyed him forever. 

 

**XXV**

He has never seen anything more beautiful. 

~~Never felt anything more beautiful~~. 

 

**XXVI**

It always was easy to find someone who would fuck him. To blow him. To erase the traces of _him_ from his body. 

Of course he never let them have him on his back. Never let them see his face or his eyes. 

They had to place their fingers where _he_ did. They had to touch him like _he_ did. They had to take him like _he_ did. From behind - gripping his hipbones, squeezing his shoulders, breathing into his neck, choking him. 

Afterwards he usually left their bed, unable to bear their affections, their admiration. Left their rooms, left their homes, unable to stand the cozyness, the feeling of family and safety and happiness. ~~The fact that they had something that could be called _home_~~. 

The man was the first one whose gaze he could hold. The first one whom he allowed to look at him. To lie under him while he sat in his lap. The first one for whom he spread his legs (tangling them around his waist, pressing him closer, stroking over his back to feel the movement of muscles and hips, hiding the face in dark hair, licking the salty sweat from his neck). 

Everything was so slow and warm and delicate that Peter sometimes wanted to scream out, to swear, to rage. To dig his heels into the back of the man’s thighs, to pull him closer, deeper. To claw his fingers into those muscles, bite into those strong shoulders, eager to draw blood, snarling and commanding him to go faster.

Frustrated. Aggravated. Irritated. 

Peter didn’t want that. He didn’t want slow and warm and delicate. 

He didn’t need it. 

~~He didn’t deserve it~~. 

He needed to be fucked. Hard and rough and dirty (so that he didn’t feel sorry for himself when he’s back in his not-home, back with his not-father, drilling into him so that every inch of his body _hurt_ ).

 

**XXVII**

“Tell me what happened.” 

“What always happens.”

He shrugged, the shudder running through the body underneath was almost palpable. Temperature falling, every limb stiffened, the echo of heartbeats slowing down. 

“You never came before on Mondays. You never looked like _this_.”

“He hated my new hair.”

Carefully Peter slid down, smoothing goose bumps away with his own heat. Breathing kisses upon collarbones, drawing poems upon ribs. He shouldn’t be so satisfied, he shouldn’t be smiling. 

~~But he can’t help it~~. 

~~The man’s instant reaction is so sweet and glorious~~. 

Too sweet. Too glorious. 

~~So. Very. Adorable. And. Comforting~~. 

Everything in his system was pain. His lips poisoned. His insides burning and filthy and ugly and ashes, even though he already showered almost countless times since last Monday. 

“He freaked out. Hit me. First - like he always does - quick and striking as a snake. Then harder, again and again. _Andagainandagainandagain_.”

(Hands lying upon his shoulders stopping their longing caresses.) 

“Asked me why I cut it and who was the one doing it. When I told him, he took the cooking spoon and my mother left the room.”

(Falling down as if suddenly remembering all the bruises there.)

“I told him I’ve got a lover. Someone I allow to touch me. Someone whose touches aren’t disgusting. Someone whose touches I enjoy. Someone who pleases me.”

(The sharp intake of breath.)

“That I like kissing you. That you’re the only one I lie on my back and spread my legs for. That I like it when you’re inside me. That you erase all proof of him inside me. That I look into your eyes and you into mine.”

“He went crazy.”

(The man’s voice quiet and clear like shards of glass.)

“He lost it completely. For a moment I thought he would really beat me to death.”

(Muscles underneath him harden with tension.)

“You provoked him.”

(The intake of breath thrilling like the calm before a storm.)

“He hit me so hard everything went black. And when I came to consciousness again I was on my back on the kitchen floor with him forcing my legs open.”

(The rising anger was electrifying like lightning and thunder in the distance.)

“He wanted me to look into his eyes.”

(Satisfying like the thunderstorm finally breaking loose.)

“I couldn’t. He can have my body… but not my soul.”

Peter clasped his hands over lips, over stubbles, supporting himself so that he could watch the reaction in those eyes. The concern and the guilt and the hate lighting up the icy eyes.

~~He could love him for all those emotions~~. 

~~For all those emotions Peter forbade himself~~. 

Tracing eyebrows and cupping the man’s face, smoothing fingers over chin and cheekbones until the tension lessened, until a ~~incredible~~ sad smile appeared. 

(Because Peter didn’t allow him to go to the police. Because Peter didn’t allow him to help him, to punish him, like he wanted to.)

(Because Peter got hurt and humiliated, again and again. ~~_Andagainandagainandagain_~~.)

“You are always beautiful but sometimes you’re like a dream - so beautiful and fragile and fierce that it pains me to look at you, because I want to touch you so damn much… But I would never even think about hurting you, forcing you. It’s a sin. It’s sacrilege.”

Peter wanted to stop him. To silence him. Yet he couldn’t. 

So he let the words rain over him, shower and cover him. They felt soft and warm like the summer rain after the storm. 

Warm hands settled again on the small of his back - almost feather like, brushing up and down his spine, tingling and smoldering like a gentle fire. Sliding under his shirt, yet their touch remains casual, languidly soothing, not exciting. Calm like the echo of strong heartbeats pulsating through his body.

(The man’s affection felt so good. The man’s words felt so good.)

He didn’t believe them. He didn’t believe they really meant _him_ \- because the man couldn’t really know how he was (dark, twisted, cruel like ice). 

But they meant the picture of himself in the man’s eyes. 

 

**XXVIII**

A picture Peter sometimes ~~loved~~ liked so much… he wanted to close his eyes. He had to stay away from the man the next weeks. Afraid he could get used to it.

 

**XXIX**

~~Afraid it could make him weak~~. 

 

**XXX**

“Why are you here?”

The words cut through the darkness in his mind. Ripping them away from the wound in the man’s arm. 

“I don’t know…” 

It’s true. 

Before he entered the hospital he knew exactly what he wanted. To do, to say, to feel. Now there’s… nothing. He’s empty. Empty of wishes, thoughts and feelings. 

(Why is he suddenly so empty?)

“I really don’t know.”

Peter shakes his head, like he could shake away this eerie and appalling feeling. 

“I thought I had come to punish you…”

Again the small nod. Again the smile. Again the eyes locking upon him. ~~Caressing him~~.

“But then you found that you couldn’t.”

“Yes...”

(Feelings made you weak.)

“I can’t.”

“Then why are you here? To say goodbye?”

(The word alone is enough to cover his body with coldness.)

“Maybe.” 

“Then…”

Shoulders rise, handcuffs rattle against the iron railings of the bed. Peter shivers - this sound alone is so very wrong he can’t even fathom it. 

“... go on. Say goodbye. Go on. Leave me.”

A dare. 

Leaning forward, Peter kisses him. The thought of ~~leaving~~ of going away, of _n e v e r-s e e i n g_ the man again…

(It’s enough to make him so _s i c k_ that he desperately needs to taste the man’s lips. To relive this feeling on his lips. To fill his memory so it lasts _f o r e v e r_.)

It still tastes wonderful. Warm and velvet. White and amber. Calming and exciting. 

When they ~~rip apart~~ part, he stays close, cups the face like he did so often before, irritated because of the transparent tube, preventing him full contact. The material cold and artificial.

(The startling similarity to the skin beneath it.)

“Before you go… please. Answer me.” 

The voice small and dry. Eyelids flutter, exhausted; only sheer focus will keeping them open. Eyes search for his, slightly unfocused. He’s breathing hard from their ~~too~~ short kiss. 

“Ask.”

Like he could deny him a last wish. Like he could deny an almost dying man a last wish. 

(Like he could deny himself a few minutes longer in this warm presence.)

“Did you plan all this? Did you use me?” 

Of course… he expected this question. So he doesn’t need to think about it. 

“Yes.” 

The man’s heartbreak is so beautiful. 

“Yes… I planned it. Before I met you.” 

~~So beautiful. It almost breaks his own heart~~. 

“But then… I had to give up my plans.”

Peter’s fingers trace the lower lip, soft and pliant. The slight roughness of stubble. The admission leaves him with such an unease, with a sickness - he feels strangely vulnerable…

“Are you telling me the truth? Have you ever told me the truth?” 

… even though the man is the one lying before him, chained to the hospital bed, bleeding and in real pain. Cut open so Peter can see everything of _him_. 

“Yes.”

~~So beautiful. Even more from the inside than on the outside~~. 

“Yes… I never lied to you. Not once.”

 

**XXXI**

When Peter woke up he was alone. He knew it the second he opened his eyes. 

And he was cold. (He was never cold. He was fire. He was hate.)

So cold. 

It was a cold that had swallowed him whole. Covered him like the snow covering the windowsill. Crept under his skin, turned his insides to ice. 

The emptiness of the house was suddenly different. It quickened his heartbeat. Sucked the oxygen out of his lungs. Crawled into his system. ~~Scared him~~. 

Never before had he felt so alone. (Only once before, but he’d promised himself that he’d never feel like that again.) 

Turning to the empty cushion beside him he searched for the last remaining and clinging scents of soap, salt and leather. But they were cold. 

Breathing in deeply, he got up. Naked. Barefoot. ~~Freezing~~. Made his way over to the window. 

Everything was white outside. Snow covered the front yard, the small pathway. The pavement. Almost covered the trail of steps leading from the porch towards the gate in the wooden fence. Turning right and getting lost in the darkness of the early monday morning. 

He’s gone. 

He left him. 

And he’ll never come back. 

 

**XXXII**

Peter was cold. 

 

**XXXIII**

And he knew this cold would never leave him again. 

 

**XXXIV**

Their last kiss is like their first. 

Deep and harsh. Fast and frantic.

Peter’s tongue thrusting in and taking whatever he wanted. ~~Needs~~. 

The lips underneath warm and pliant. 

Opening. 

Giving. 

Their last kiss is like their second.

Slow and chaste. Alluring and soothing. 

Tongues brushing, stroking, caressing. Not taking. Not giving. Just touching. Savouring. Burning every second into memory. Into flesh and bone. 

It lasts forever. Endless seconds, endless beeping sounds of the machinery. Endless weak heartbeats from the man against his chest. 

~~It’s over too soon~~. 

When he finally pulls away - turning his face sideways to breathe, Peter licks, kisses his way over stubbled cheeks towards the dark hair. 

Whispers his words of farewell into the man’s ear. 

Then he steps away from the bed. 

Takes in the sight for a moment longer. The soft smile he is was so used to. The too pale face he ~~isn’t~~ wasn’t used to. The dark hair, tousled because he brushed his fingers through it. 

White. Everything so damn white. 

Turns around. And leaves the room, barely catching the almost inaudible reply. 

The door falls shut. 

Outside there is noise and chaos, nurses and patients. Talk and laughter. Prying eyes, judging him. 

The boy who visited the man from the churchyard.

The boy who talked to the man who loved the dead more than the living. 

The boy who cared about the man who killed his father. 

Through the window he can see him for the last time. 

It’s over now.

 

**XXXV**

He never forgets. 

Peter remembers _everything_. 

Remembering used to make him strong. 

Memories used to be a gift. 

But now he has to forget about the house next to the graveyard. 

Has to forget about blue eyes.

Has to forget about white. Soap. Cream. Milkpowder. Snow. 

(Everything that once was good in the world.)

 

___

 

Thanks for reading  
♥


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